


Two days and four hours

by stilljustbitten



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Andrés is away, Cleaning advice for come stains, Established Relationship, M/M, Martín misses him, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28411770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilljustbitten/pseuds/stilljustbitten
Summary: “Well, it isn’t really the best time for a talk,” Andrés says in a low voice. Martín notices the other voices on the phone.He smiles.“I’m in your bed,” he says. “I’m wearing your robe and nothing else. It smells of you.”After a moment of silence, Andrés says:“Martín, what are you—”He stops when Martín starts breathing faster.“Shit. Martín, this really isn’t— shit. Hold on,” he says through gritted teeth, and Martín knows he’s got him.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	Two days and four hours

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy my very first established relationship fic!

Martín has just stepped out of the shower and decides to put on his robe until he realizes that he spilled wine on it yesterday when he was trying to drown his loneliness. He makes a quick decision and goes to Andrés’ room, and right there, on his neatly made bed, lays his silky robe. The one he’s always wearing. It looks almost as if he left it there for Martín to use, at least that’s what Martín tells himself. That Andrés wouldn’t be mad if he found out that he borrowed it while he is away. 

He has only been away for a day and a half, but it’s already killing Martín. He is used to having him around all of the time. And now, when they’re finally in some sort of a relationship - since two weeks ago - it’s torture not having him around. 

Martín always considered himself an independent man, he would always thrive alone, always knew what to do with his time. But he feels everything but independent these days. It’s like Andrés left a void after himself, which Martín doesn’t know how to fill. He’s tried with planning robberies, playing his guitar, reading, dancing, drinking - nothing works, he’s only able to think of how long it is until Andrés comes home. Which will be in two days and 4 hours, but who’s counting?

He takes the robe from the bed, and it’s so slippery between his hands. So cold, too. As soon as he slips it on, the fabric feels warm, though. The smell of Andrés almost makes his heart ache. He wraps it around himself and ties the belt, and then he just stands there, not knowing what to do with himself. 

He walks around the room. The curtains are closed, and when he peeks out, he sees the pitch dark night only interrupted by the small torches lighting up the garden. He considers briefly walking outside, but he already feels the cold from the night seeping through the window, making him close the curtain again.

He turns around and watches the bed. The big, empty bed, which should be occupied by Andrés, but isn’t. It should be occupied by Andrés _and himself_. Because of the shortness of their relationship they’ve been having a lot of fun in that bed lately. And in Martín’s bed, and the couch, the kitchen counter. And in the garden, that one time, where they almost got caught by the monks. 

They should be worshipping each other in this bed, moaning each other’s names, which feels so good now that it’s finally allowed. Now that Martín no longer has to do it into a pillow in his own room, all by himself. 

They should be licking each other, biting, even. Pounding into each other. 

Martín snaps out of his thoughts when he notices the tenting of the robe. It feels incredibly nice against his naked body, the silk caressing it, light as a feather. If Andrés was here, he would look hungrily at the robe-covered erection before slowly -

Martín unties the belt, and the robe slides to the sides, caressing his erection in the process. He lets out a breath at the sensation.

The room is only illuminated by the dim light seeping from the door. He lets his hand slide over the blanket on the bed - silky, too, of course, he knows the feeling too well - before pulling it aside and sliding under it. The bed is too cold, he has never been in it alone. He doesn’t want to be alone, he needs company, and the same goes for his erection.

An idea suddenly springs into his head, and before getting too comfortable under the sheets, he storms out of the room, picks up his phone, and gets right back into the bed. 

Maybe, if he’s lucky, Andrés has time to keep him some almost-company. He turns on the camera, but the light is too faint and the quality of his phone too bad, so a picture under the sheets is not a possibility. What a shame for Andrés, he thinks. 

When he lets go of the blanket, the fabric falls softly around his erection, and it feels _good_. 

With his phone in one hand, he lets his other hand gently caress the tenting in the blanket. This shouldn’t feel so damn nice, it really shouldn’t, but he blames it on the one and a half day without any sexual interaction. 

It doesn’t take long before his hand is firmly around his erection, still outside the thin blanket, lazily stroking.

He becomes aware that he’s clutching the phone in his other hand, and is reminded of his brilliant idea. Briefly letting go of his erection, he scrolls through his contacts and taps on Andrés’ name.

He surely hopes he isn’t doing anything important right now.

The phone is ringing, and Martín can’t help but sneak his other hand under the blanket to lightly touch himself in the meantime. He might have gotten lost in the feeling of caressing his balls and the spot right behind them, and the phone might have been ringing for about a minute when Andrés’ voice brings him out of his haze.

“Martín? Is anything wrong?”

His voice is a mix of annoyed and worried. Martín almost wants to laugh at the situation - Andrés is worried that anything is _wrong_. Then it dawns on him that he probably shouldn’t have disturbed him, but what’s done is done, and the mere sound of Andrés’ voice already makes him feel less lonely.

“No, don’t worry, I’m totally fine. I just—” he sighs, partly from pleasure from his hand around his dick, partly from longing “— I miss you.”

“Well, it isn’t really the best time for a talk,” Andrés says in a low voice. Martín notices the other voices on the phone.

He smiles.

“I’m in your bed,” he says. “I’m wearing your robe and—” he almost moans when he squeezes his dick “—nothing else. It smells of you.”

After a moment of silence, Andrés says:

“Martín, what are you—”

He stops when Martín starts breathing faster.

“Shit. Martín, this really isn’t— shit. Hold on,” he says through gritted teeth, and Martín knows he’s got him.

He caresses himself lazily while waiting for Andrés to return. He hears murmuring in the background, probably Andrés making an excuse for leaving whatever he was in the middle of, followed by the opening and closing of several doors. 

“Just a second,” Andrés whispers, before the opening and closing of another door, and then the sound of a lock.

“Are you alone?” Martín finally asks.

“Yes,” Andrés answers, almost out of breath. “I was in a fucking meeting, Martín.”

He surely aims for annoyance, but Martín can hear the amusement in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Martín lies. “I hope it wasn’t important. Where are you now?”

“Bathroom,” Andrés answers, and Martín hears the rustling of clothes. “I just had to take off my blazer. You were saying?”

Martín chuckles and starts stroking himself.

“Naked, wearing your robe, in your bed, hand around my dick.”

He hears the hitch of Andrés’ breath at the last words. 

“I wish I was there,” Andrés almost whispers, and then he moans softly. 

“Are you touching yourself, Andrés? I need you to talk to me.”

“Yes, yes I am. Tell me, Martín, how does it feel, the hand around your dick?” 

Martín’s cheek blush at the question, something so intimate about Andrés knowing that he’s touching himself, despite the other very intimate things they’ve done together. Maybe it’s because he’s reminded of the numerous times he’s touched himself while thinking of Andrés, when Andrés couldn’t know. 

“Mmmh, it feels good,” he answers, his hand moving slowly. “A little rough, though.”

“Take the lube in the drawer on my nightstand.”

Martín’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. 

“I didn’t know you had lube in your room.”

“Well, I have to be prepared, don’t I? I never know when you’ll show up in my room at night.”

Martín reaches to open the drawer, and sure enough, there’s a rather big bottle of lube. 

“You’re right. I’ll just have to—” 

He squeezes his phone between his shoulder and ear to use his other hand to open the bottle. When he squeezes the bottle, he feels the phone slipping from his shoulder - damn silky robe - and in his panic trying to save the phone from falling, he ends up clasping the bottle, getting lube on both his hands. 

“Fuck, Andrés, wait,” he almost shouts. 

Then he pauses for a second and has to laugh out loud when he looks down at his very hard dick and his lube-covered hands. He ends up wiping one hand in the robe, it’s going in the laundry anyway, and in a way, it feels so wrong and _filthy_. 

His other hand finds its way back under the blanket.

“Andrés, are you there?” he asks after picking up the phone.

“Of course I am here. What happened?”

“Uh” — he has to stifle a laugh — “I had a situation with the lube, and your damn robe was too slippery to hold up my phone.” 

“Hey, don’t talk shit about my robe just because you can’t coordinate your moves. Does it feel better now?”

Martín caresses himself and flicks his thumb over the head of his cock, hissing. 

“Much better,” he admits. He takes a moment just to revel in the pleasure before he asks:

“If you were back home, in your bed with me, what would you do?”

Andrés seems to think for a moment.

“My lips would be around your cock in an instant.”

Martín feels his cock react to the words immediately, as another rush of blood fills it. He moans into the phone and quickens the pace of his hand.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you, Martín?” Andrés chuckles, breathing fast. 

“Yes,” Martín answers.

“Such a shame it wouldn’t last long. I love to taste you, but what I love even more is to, ah— to bury myself inside you.”

“Fuck, Andrés!” The image inside Martín’s head is so vivid, and if his other hand wasn’t occupied with the phone, he knows very well what he would use it for. “I would love that, too.”

“I know. You would beg me for more, and I would give it to you. I would make you scream, and you would think of me every time you tried to sit down for the next couple of days.”

For a moment, Martín just listens to Andrés’ heavy breathing, the clear evidence that not only are his words meant for riling Martín up, but they get him going too. He likes _marking_ Martín and making sure he never thinks of anybody else. Not that he ever would.

His hand is working furiously between his legs while he imagines the last time Andrés did something like that. When he bent him over the kitchen counter, and his hips were bruised for a week. 

“I miss you,” he breathes.

“Shit, I miss you, too. I can’t wait to feel your tight ass around my cock again.”

“Fuck, ah— Andrés,” he slows down the pace of his hand. “I’m going to come.”

“Already?”

Andrés sounds surprised as if he isn’t aware of the effect he has on Martín.

“Well, I kind of got a head start, and it’s been a while.”

“A day and a half, Martín. God, you’re like a teenager. Okay, stop touching yourself, I need to keep up with you.”

Martín almost laughs.

“What—”

“I said get that hand off your cock.”

The demanding tone in Andrés’ voice makes Martín immediately remove his hand, even though he’s aware that Andrés can’t see him. But he would _know_. 

“Good. Now, what would you like to do to me?”

“I, uh—”

Martín shifts under the blanket, having a really hard time not touching himself. He shakes his head and tries to focus.

“I would get on my knees in front of you, and I would lick that beautiful cock of yours. I would tease you with my tongue until you were desperate, until you would grab my hair.” He lets out a ragged breath and grasps the sheets with his hand to keep it occupied. Andrés is quiet. “Then I’d let you fuck my mouth until I was gasping for air. Let you shoot your come down my throat.”

“Nnngh, yes,” Andrés answers, and Martín winces. This is torture. He tries to imagine Andrés in that bathroom, undoubtedly wearing that blue suit of his, his fly open and his hand around his dick, pumping fiercely. The determined look on his face, the clenching of his jaw— he totally shouldn’t have imagined that.

“Please, Andrés, I need to—”

“Not yet”, Andrés warns him, and he’s so desperate that he almost wants to cry.

He moves his hips to make his dick brush against the blanket, but shit, it isn’t enough at all. 

“Talk to me, Martín.”

“Alright, fuck. I could also drag down your pants and bend you over the sink, and do that, uh— do you remember the thing I did the night before you left, with my tongue?”

Judging from the ragged moan leaving Andrés’ mouth, he remembers it very well.

“Fuck, yes, that felt so good.” 

His words are nothing but a whisper, and Martín isn’t sure they were even meant for him to hear. 

The situation between his legs is getting painful. 

“Andrés, I’m going to fucking hang up on you if you don’t give me permission to touch myself.”

Of course, he doesn’t mean it, he would never hang up on Andrés. And Andrés knows it. He laughs softly, strained.

“You have my permission. Tell me what it feels like.”

But when Martín’s hand is back on his cock there is no way he is going to form a coherent sentence, with the wave of pleasure surging through his body. The closest he comes is a whimper, and he immediately feels the sensation, the warning from his body.

“Martín, tell me.”

Andrés’ words are punctuated by gasps, and Martín knows that this is how he sounds right before he— 

“I can’t—” 

He forces himself to slow down and takes a moment to catch his breath before continuing.

“I’m going to come right here in your bed, on your sheets. Probably on your robe, too.”

He picks up the pace, and judging from the sounds coming from Andrés, he did just the same.

“Martín” — his voice is shaky, yet demanding — “You’re going to shout my name when you come.” 

Martín’s movements are erratic now, and the phone almost slides out of his sweaty hand. Surely, this lacks some finesse - his position is awkward, his arm is beginning to hurt, and he feels like a horny teenager. But none of this matters when he finally falls over the edge. 

“I’m, fuck— I love you, Andrés.” 

The name is something between a moan and a whine, and Martín shivers when he comes all over his own hand. His phone is pressed to his ear, as not to miss the moans from Andrés.

“I— ah, _fuck_ ”, Andrés almost shouts, followed by a ragged groan.

Martín listens to him panting into the phone until his breathing calms down, and he clears his throat on the other end of the line.

“I was trying to say that I love you too.”

Martín chuckles, a warm feeling spreading inside him. Somehow he misses Andrés’ presence even more now when his body starts to cool down after his orgasm, and there is no one to keep him warm.

“I might have to change your sheets,” Martín informs him. “ _And_ clean your robe,” he adds, after lifting the blanket to have a look.

“Cold water, or it will stain,” Andrés says flatly. Martín laughs.

“Are you okay to get back to your meeting?” 

“I’m fine. I’ll just have to wipe this mess off the wall,” he groans, irritated. 

“Have fun with that. Can you please call me later?”

He doesn’t want to be the needy boyfriend, but he really misses him.

“I’ll call you as soon as I get back to the hotel, it should only be an hour or two.”

He pauses before adding:

“But if we’re going to do this again, you’ll be in your own bed this time.”


End file.
